


heavy metal and reflective

by shipwrecks



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blood, M/M, Murder, Nonconsensual, Rutting, Violence, being turned on by murder, but it's a lot more of dennis being into himself, dennis wears the dress again, it’s dennis y’all, technically macdennis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 03:34:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14741264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: "Look at you," he says to the mirror, to the utter perfection that he sees.





	heavy metal and reflective

**Author's Note:**

> HEY GUYS: this fic is straight up dennis getting himself gussied up and then murdering mac and then being turned on by it. to divinyls’ great classic ‘i touch myself’. if that doesn’t speak to you, jog on. 
> 
> “this is one of the most depraved fics i have ever read i am so proud of you” —fandom mom haemophilus (im love her, this monstrosity—like all my dark dennis—is for her)

"You doing okay out there?"  
  
Dennis chuckles after he asks, because it’s not a genuine question. Mac is tied to a chair in the living room and doesn’t want to be. Plus, there’s duct tape over his mouth, so it’s not like he could answer anyway.  
  
The bathroom mirror reflects back a god—chiseled and stunning and painting his lips red. In between singing along to the blaring music— _I love myself/I want you to love me_ —he pouts and blows himself a kiss, runs a hand down his chest. Wants to feel the muscle, the power.  
  
He slips into the dress, sensual, seductive. There's no absurd tits this time, just Dennis wearing the shit out of this dress— _his_ dress, kept only because he threw it in the back of his closet. But he's glad it remained there, waiting for him, for this moment. He looks good—the way he catches the light, blinding. He feels like glitter.  
  
"Look at you," he says to the mirror, to the utter perfection that he sees.  
  
Dennis is so caught up in his reflection—his sharp jaw, the curve of his waist, lean legs in heels—he almost forgets someone else is here. Almost. After all, he is putting on a show—can't go forgetting the performance. He turns and looks Mac in the eye. Then he purrs out some words to the song— _I forget myself/I want you to remind me_ —Walks toward him—  
  
_fuck_ he stumbles, been awhile since he'd put these on. The three whiskey shots taken in rapid succession probably didn't help either. If Mac notices, he doesn't—Dennis chortles, _can't_ —say anything. The lighting’s low, he didn’t even see it.  
  
Dennis regroups and continues to the chair, puts a heeled foot on the seat, between Mac's legs. It grazes his cock, and his breath tries to hitch behind the tape. A wicked smile unfurls on Dennis’ face. He does it again, intentionally now, and Mac’s eyes—wide, nervous, then they flutter closed. He opens them back up immediately, doesn’t want to—but—Dennis can see it—powerless to him. He removes his foot from the chair and backs away—a bounce in his step, ass shaking.  
  
"Would you fuck me"—another question that isn’t genuine. He knows very well that Mac would fuck him— _wants_ to fuck him— _who wouldn’t_ —couldn't ever keep a secret from Dennis.  
  
"I'd fuck me," he says, catching his reflection in the hall mirror and winking at him. "I'd fuck me hard."  
  
Dennis is still dancing around the living room—sexy, shining like glitter. He slinks away behind Mac, to the kitchen, hips swaying to the music. He pulls the knife—glinting even in the lowlight, freshly sharpened—from the drawer. He walks back to Mac, alight inside and he's holding a weapon.  
  
He runs the knife along Mac’s throat—flat side against skin, blade only slightly skimming, but Dennis can feel the pulse underneath change. He made that happen—he can feel himself getting hard, against the fabric of the dress. Mac strains against the zip ties holding him to the chair, Dennis notices with a thrill.  
  
The cold steel shines and then it's dark with blood, with just a twist of Dennis' wrist. He doesn't go deep because he doesn't want to kill him. _yet_ unsaid but lingering. Mac winces against the knife, Dennis gets harder. The dress strains against his dick. He dips himself down to Mac's neck, is _this_ close to Mac's skin, his lips just not touching. His cock is pressed up against Mac—touching.  
  
Dennis twists around the chair to face Mac, one hand on the back and the other still holding the knife to him—trapping him—well, trapping him more. Dennis' smile—bright and sunny—sinister in its earnestness.  
  
Finally—finally— _finally_ like Dennis has been waiting years for this—he stabs Mac, in the stomach, knowing it will take the longest to bleed out from. Knowing it will hurt. His dick, still throbbing, has never been hard like this, brushes against the handle of the knife— _fuckshit_ —jolts him anew and he feels Shiny, Alive.  
  
He begins to pull out the knife and then—there's blood everywhere now, streaking in lines across the floor and all over his dress and his hands covered—gloves. He raises them and the blood trails like marionette strings from his fingers to Mac's chest—he's pale now, in shock, can't quite figure out what's happened. Dennis would bother explaining if Mac were ever a good conversation partner, but certainly as it stands—  
  
He sits down in Mac's lap—blood all over him—warm, viscid on his thighs—rolls his hips, this time deliberately against the handle—the handle of the knife that he just put _inside_ Mac—Electric. It's like the knife is his cock, _inside_ Mac. He keeps thrusting—the scratch of the dress' fabric—the blood— _not his_ —running down his legs— _When I think about you/I touch myself_ —the bright silver blade shining through translucent red—meeting resistance against skin and organs. Dennis’ head spins at the _texture_ of it all—of what he’s capable of—he's not a man, he’s transcendent—sparkling and divine.  
  
He hates Mac, he _Hates_ him, he rips the skirt of the dress up and jerks himself—the knife is his cock, _inside_ Mac—dizzy when he looks at the stab wound—a giant, gaping hole inside Mac. Mac—pallid and practically unconscious—Dennis contracts. In the corner of his eye, his reflection— _I want you/I don’t want anybody else_ —Shining, he's glitter. His head falls back—throat exposed—and his mouth—red _Red_ RED—opens, a perfect O. He quickens his pace, the head of his cock—Sensitive—brushes Mac’s bloody and heaving chest—he’s gonna come, tips forward, feels the knife go in deeper—he comes—blinding white, spills out everything inside him—he’s practically vibrating in the stillness around him, song over, spent.  
  
The whole scene is filthy—blood and guts and come, Dennis shimmers—covered in it. He picks himself up, adjusts his skirt, leaves Mac, bleeding out and trying to get air, and he goes to the kitchen for the whiskey bottle. He returns and perches lightly on the couch arm as he takes a great gulp, his ankles cross delicately, he belches loudly. He looks into Mac's eyes, glazed over and hooded, would be hot if—well actually, it still is pretty hot. Mac might definitely be unconscious now—it's certainly the easiest it's ever been to be around him.  
  
“So _Mac_ ,” Dennis says, and then he slips on the couch arm—but catches himself, only spilling a bit of whiskey. “Are you _dying_ to know why I did this?”  
  
He laughs—not at the joke, but rather, at the fact that he’s made a joke. It’s a third not genuine question as well. Not because Dennis knows Mac’s answer—he doesn’t care.  
  
“Are you _dying_ —” ha, he laughs again, at the choice of his pause to take a pull off the whiskey bottle, “—just _dying_ to know?” Mac says nothing, like he should. “Well, as long as you're just sitting there, pay attention.”  
  
He starts with another drink—he’s post-jizz and tipsy, whiskey sloshes out of the bottle and down his chin. He’s messy, sexy. And you can’t even tell, really—what with all the blood.  
  
“Because I hate you.” He says calmly—his voice leveled—unemotional. But as soon as he says it, he feels the words—feels them like they’re crawling under his skin.  
  
“I Hate You” he says more emphatically this time, punctuated by more whiskey.  
  
“I hate you!” he’s now off the couch, swaying around, dancing, stumbling. “I hate you!” he’s almost singing, arms outstretched like a martyr—Mac once his cross to bear, not anymore. “I hate you!”  
  
Walks to Mac—white as a sheet now, surrounded by so much red—all the way up to his face. Screams _I HATE YOU_ screams _I HATE YOU_ screams _I HATE YOU_ .  
  
He pours the last of the whiskey into his mouth—missing quite a bit, raising his other arm and dragging it across his face, wiping it away. Tastes the metallic of blood.  
  
Dennis lobs the now-empty whiskey bottle at the mirror—the bottle shatters and the mirror splinters out from the collision. It throws sparkles of light across the room. There’s him and him and him and him and him in the mirror—they’re all Dennis, shining back at him. He’s glistening—covered in sweat, a strap’s fallen off his shoulder, his lipstick’s smeared, his eyes are wild—pupils blown—he looks unhinged, he looks fucking great.

And then there’s a silence where there once was thought to be silence—something is now missing. Mac isn’t breathing—

  
  
  
  


something is now found.


End file.
